


Ummm...

by Unovis



Category: Basil of Baker Street - All Media Types, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Great Mouse Detective (1986)
Genre: Food, Gen, Humor, Murder by Decree - Freeform, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 07:39:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4952053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unovis/pseuds/Unovis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What's a hungry mouse to do?<br/>A little fun with crumpets from The Great Mouse Detective, with a nod to That Scene from Murder by Decree. Remix of "Umami," by Keerawa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ummm...

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Umami](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1943961) by [keerawa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keerawa/pseuds/keerawa). 



Mrs. Judson’s cookery was ghastly. Those cheese crumpets! Served up every morning, plonked on a plate, barely more edible than the doily beneath. Dawson shuddered. The volatile Basil, fanatically observant, never complained or passed remarks. True, he had used them for target practice on bored evenings. One functioned as a paper-weight on his chemicals bench. Toby found them an acceptable variety of dog biscuit. Dawson himself had discovered their emergency utility as fuel, in a rare fit of desert nostalgia. Unlike camel dung, however, they burned steadily, with a grim, green glow. But food, they were not.

In the genial disorder of their digs and erratic, adventurous lives, what mattered the diurnal leaden crumpet? Yet it galled. Did Basil lack all taste? Unlikely, Dawson mused, resting on his cane, watching the consulting detective lick a hansom wheel. He displayed a sense of smell that was acute, even for their species. He was able to discern by a bare nibble sixteen distinct manufactures of gutta percha and the vintage of their sources. If anything, he should have a highly sensitive palate. And yet, Exhibit CC. Was his indifference to their daily scourge an aspect of some Eastern discipline? Or was it simple disinclination, born of ignorance? Dawson felt keenly embarrassed about the whole matter. He was too civil mannered, too recent a cohabitant, although a paying one, to raise a fuss. In other things, the housekeeper was a paragon of patience and benignity. He would not insult her for worlds. “Use your bean, old boy,” he advised himself. And rubbed his waistcoat wistfully. He liked a good bean, in bacon fat.

The issue broke in sweltering, smoky August. Basil had been awake for seventy-two hours, subsisting on tobacco and tea. Stewed, tepid tea, stale as the case that consumed his attention. “You’ll waste to nothing,” pleaded Dawson. “Come away.” He tugged on the hem of the ratty dressing gown, all he could reach of Basil, who teetered atop his armchair, picking soot samples from the chandelier. “Come, there’s a new cafe just opened behind the Regent ice house. We could sample a cold consommé, or a raspberry ice.”

“If you crave cold food, there’s last night’s whatsit in the tureen,” grunted Basil. His left paw slipped from the chair, and he grasped a floriated bracket. “Mutton stew!” cried Dawson, heart-struck. He yanked forcefully on the fabric. “Basil, my dear soul, that is beyond even...”

“Or fresh crumpets. MRS JUDSON!”

“NO!” wailed Dawson; convulsing in revulsion, he staggered back, falling, pulling the startled, scrabbling Basil off the chair and onto his growling stomach.

“I say, Dawson...”

“No. Merciful heavens, no. Erm. I mean to say. Ah. Thank you, no.” He peered down his chest at Basil, who lay where he fell, propped on his elbows on Dawson’s waistcoat, staring at him.

“You don’t want cheese crumpets?”

“Ah...”

“You don’t _care_ for cheese crumpets. In fact,” said Basil, his smile dawning with a great _Aha!_ , “you detest _these_ cheese crumpets! _You_ ,” he crowed, pointing at Dawson’s nose, “ _don’t like Mrs Judson’s crumpets! Or anything she's prepared!_ ”

“How do you do it?” said Dawson, weakly. 

“Up,” said Basil, leaping to his feet, “not a moment to lose!” He dashed through the door, barely missing the incoming housekeeper.

“Certainly, certainly,” said Dawson, rolling to his front, then to his knees. He heard Basil clattering up the inner passage that led to the upper floors. “Thank you, Mrs. Judson, I’m fine, we’re, er, fine, sorry to disturb.” He brushed his trousers front and ascended, with some hope of dignity.

“I’ll just leave these on the table then, shall I?” floated up behind him. Dawson shuddered and climbed.

He found Basil higher than accustomed, pushing aside a square ornamental leaf. “Mantel,” whispered Basil. “Mind your paws and whiskers.” They emerged, as warned, onto a narrow wood mantel, above a cold grate. Mind his paws, indeed. A knife blade, taller than Basil, transfixed a wad of papers, next to a square carriage clock, and beyond that...a human skull? Nuts, game pieces, and coins of foreign stamp littered the polished wood. Dawson was so intent on navigating obstacles and following Basil’s rapid creep that the sounds and smells of the great room came into focus only gradually. “My word,” he gasped. “Basil—He—They’re—at home!”

“And so are we. Yes, just in time. Look.”

Sherlock Holmes stood over the seated man...Doctor Watson, himself!...shaking a jacket in his fist. The doctor bent over a plate, fork in hand. The fork clinked erratically on the porcelain. Holmes tutted. Basil shook his head. “This again,” whispered Basil.

“Not again,” boomed Holmes. “The last blasted pea.”

“My pea.” Watson speared it on the tines. “My peas, my way.”

“Yes, your blessed feeling of the pea popping on your tongue. I forever recall. Pop your errant legume, wipe your mouth, take up your stick. We’re late.”

“Curtain’s at half seven,” said Watson. He closed his lips over the fork with pleasure.

“Courtesy...”

“You've neglected yours.”

Holmes sniffed. He leaned across Watson and with his abandoned fork stabbed a leaf of greenstuff, a shred of meat, a flake of aged cheese. Into his mouth it went. He briefly closed his eyes. He swallowed. He smiled. “Ambrosia. As always, old man. Now will you come along!”

“So well matched,” thought Dawson. “So perfectly married. The slight bitter of the leaf, the rare savory beef, the sharp grainy cheese. Olive oil.” He could have wept.

“Ordered in,” said Basil. “Specialties on theater nights. They never finish all.” The room was empty now. The mantel sides were carved, easy to descend. “There’s the odd breakfast as well. Lestrade calls inconvenient early.”

“You make a habit of this?” Dawson was shocked. Not too shocked to eat. Ambrosia, indeed. His palate sang.

“Oh, no. I merely observe.” Basil dragged a digit through a smear of oil and licked it. “Cheese crumpets do me admirably well. The staff of life.” He may have winked. 

Dawson eyed him sideways. “Your education, sir, is incomplete.” He chewed the married flavors in perfect bliss. He closed his eyes. He swallowed. He smiled.


End file.
